March 16-22, 1998: R Eirik Ott and Liz Casey

Week of March 16, 1998-March 22, 1998

R Eirik Ott and Liz Casey

R Eirik Ott


R Eirik Ott has been treading water for years, perfecting his ability to flail away and never move an inch He is a performance poet disguised as a journalism student at Chico State University in northern California He has performed at poetry slams all over the state and may be coming soon to a coffeehouse near you (but mostly in San Francisco and Los Angeles) You can e-mail him at with questions and comments and cheesecake recipes, or you can visit his website at and read samples of his work.

The following work is Copyright © 1998, and owned by R Eirik Ott and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner whatsover without written permission from the author.

Hungry Poet, Will Work For Food

I saw my poet friend John Omaha the other day
sitting in the lobby
of the Butte County Social Welfare Department
He smiled,
shrugged his shoulders
with his palms to the ceiling,
and said,
“This world is unkind to us poets “

I scratched my ear
with the rolled up tip
of my appointment slip –
#B57 –
and couldn’t help but agree
A few days later I returned
to fill out more forms
and check more boxes
and saw my African dancer/poet friend Holly
sitting in a dirty molded plastic chair
with an appointment slip in hand She looked up from her journal and said,
“My bookstore job doesn’t pay enough I need to have my teeth cleaned I need to have a check-up I need to buy some food “

Poetry has a way
of keeping us all
in need
Us poets Us dreamers.

Map of Your Body

I’m in the shower
watching you
wash you hair
hot water flow
down your breasts
in soapy rivulets
and arc in streams
from your nipples

And I realize
that I have touched
every part of your body
kissed every curve
every inch
and still
I am fascinated

and i look back to your eyes
and find them smiling
as if they know
what I’m thinking.


my spine tingles as
my pee mingles with the hot
soapy bathwater.

maybe my grandma
has bodies in her basement you just never know
laughter and slaughter
look like they rhyme they don’t
but do after time
you giggle as my cock
does the magic mushroom,
swelling in your fist
my cock, your mouth, the
table, the stairs, my bed, my god that feels so nice
ass like a donut,
balls like bon-bons, weenie like
a ho-ho: eat me!

blood from my girlfriend’s
period is encrusted
on my fingernails
hand on my penis,
kimberly lies beside me
watching screensavers
baby, if your ass
were a lightbulb, the whole world
would wear sunglasses
big daddy’s makin’
biscuits on my belly fat,
purring and content
lego must’ve made
our bodies, baby-the way
they snap together
i am sitting here-
naked-on the bathroom floor
writing these haikus
we’d only dated
for two months; we shouldn’t have
worn each other’s clothes
kissing you is like
shooting up with novacaine;
i don’t feel a thing
loving you is like
losing my keys for six months;
i’m going nowhere
remember that night
we made love for the first time?
we lied to ourselves
i hate you i hate
you i hate you i hate you please take me back
scalding hot bath in
vain to cleanse the stain, the sin,
her smell from my skin
the blackberry stains
on my fingertips look like
blood, only bluer
goth girl says, “please don’t
write a poem about me “
i say, “well okay “

i woke up to find
it was the end of the world;
should i lock my bike?

we are starfish on
the ocean floor, staring up
at the fish with wings
If you put your ear
to my chest right now, you would
hear my heart breaking.

Liz Casey


My name is Liz Casey I live in New Haven, CT I’m 34 years old and wish I could say I had something prestigious to offer as credentials, or at the very least some formal writing instruction I don’t I also has a blatant disregard for capitalization and an unwavering passion for all things unorthodox

The following work is Copyright © 1998, and owned by Liz Casey and may not be distributed or reprinted in any manner
whatsover without written permission from the author.

of conversations had

first hello’s a coy inauguration
a blatant suggestion
a response in the form of a whisper
dirty needles
spoke volumes of the man
unbeknownst to me
we were both children of a lesser god
wild in our abandon
restrained in our situations
prone to ambiguities
drawn to infernos of question and doubt
flames burned our second skin
as we beckoned to them from above
sitting high, most precarious
tossing daggers from our tongues
overcome by the power of suggestion
contemplating the knowledge of who we’d become
together yet divided
by lines cast from shadows
silhouettes dancing the median
crossing seductively the boundaries
of love
of hate
of feeling nothing and everything
in the same conversation
yet we still reach to speak
still seek
we’re afraid to tell
we know better
than to ponder
conversations had

i bleed

razor sharp
the line between
in contrast the same
dagger to my being
it’s all
in my mind
the blood
is real

revelations (to myself)

i read your
indexed your
walked away
and watched
you destroy yourself
as you built me
edited me
white on white
i was every
you wanted
claimed me to be
just so you
could write
your own


of hope
of discord
tie me
bind me
seek the eye
slip waxed
needle to my vein
inject me
infect me
get me high

unravel this chord
or cut me free
of my restraints
and let me fall

call it a wash

white fences
pale her in suburbia
white lies
pale in her fantasy
she paints the town red
in her own delusion
a mottled palette
and muddy dreams
while she seeks
huck finn
in versace

what ambivalence?

half of me
wants to
break you
make you
love me
the other
half wants to
break you
make you
love me
in completely
different ways
of course

lsd (love sucks darling)

from shoes
that fit
only half the time
some psychedelic
passed between
twisted minds
tangled tongues
words came easier
when i wasn’t
trying to kiss
your ass
with my foot
in my mouth

not his type

and for all
i wanna agree with you
(among other things)
we’ll get this
get this over
(and over)
lie down
so we can see
eye to eye


on three ninety five
boston would wait
we couldn’t
on nine hundred cc’s
sixty or a buck ten
velocity was relative
to the throttle
i could reach
accelerated in the
6pm shadow
behind us
such is the clutch
of two being seventeen
on three ninety five


true i’m too soft
and i bend too easily
i’m soft
in the wrong places
(you dared not touch)
i bend
the wrong way
(over backwards)
and the only thing
that remains hard
is understanding why
there’s no thrill
trapped between
milky thighs
and grabbing my
ankles just doesn’t
grab your attention